^BERKELEY 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
S      CALIFORNIA 


SONNETS 
AND   OTHER   VERSES 


Sonnets 
And  Other  Verses 

By 

GEORGE  SANTAYANA 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD    &    COMPANY 
1906 


COPYRIGHT,  1894,  1896 
BY  STONE  AND  KIMBALL 

This  edition  published  July,  7906,  by 
DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


THE  TROW  PRESS,  N.  Y. 


7 


SONNETS 


FIRST  SERIES 


243 


I  SOUGHT  on  earth  a  garden  of  delight, 

Or  island  altar  to  the  Sea  and  Air, 

Where  gentle  music  were  accounted  prayer, 

And  reason,  veiled,  performed  the  happy  rite. 

My  sad  youth  worshipped  at  the  piteous  height 

Where  God  vouchsafed  the  death  of  man  to  share 

His  love  made  mortal  sorrow  light  to  bear, 

But  his  deep  wounds  put  joy  to  shamed  flight. 

And  though  his  arms,  outstretched  upon  the  tree, 

Were  beautiful,  and  pleaded  my  embrace, 

My  sins  were  loth  to  look  upon  his  face. 

So  came  I  down  from  Golgotha  to  thee, 

Eternal  Mother;    let  the  sun  and  sea 

Heal  me,  and  keep  me  in  thy  dwelling-place. 


II 

OLOW  and  reluctant  was  the  long  descent, 

With  many  farewell  pious  looks  behind, 

And  dumb  misgivings  where  the  path  might  wind, 

And  questionings  of  nature,  as  I  went. 

The  greener  branches  that  above  me  bent, 

The  broadening  valleys,  quieted  my  mind, 

To  the  fair  reasons  of  the  Spring  inclined 

And  to  the  Summer's  tender  argument. 

But  sometimes,  as  revolving  night  descended, 

And  in  my  childish  heart  the  new  song  ended, 

I  lay  down,  full  of  longing,  on  the  steep ; 

And,  haunting  still  the  lonely  way  I  wended, 

Into  my  dreams  the  ancient  sorrow  blended, 

And  with  these  holy  echoes  charmed  my  sleep. 


Ill 

O  WORLD,  thou  choosest  not  the  better  part ! 

It  is  not  wisdom  to  be  only  wise, 

And  on  the  inward  vision  close  the  eyes, 

But  it  is  wisdom  to  believe  the  heart. 

Columbus  found  a  world,  and  had  no  chart, 

Save  one  that  faith  deciphered  in  the  skies; 

To  trust  the  soul's  invincible  surmise 

Was  all  his  science  and  his  only  art. 

Our  knowledge  is  a  torch  of  smoky  pine 

That  lights  the  pathway  but  one  step  ahead 

Across  a  void  of  mystery  and  dread. 

Bid,  then,  the  tender  light  of  faith  to  shine 

By  which  alone  the  mortal  heart  is  led 

Unto  the  thinking  of  the  thought  divine. 


IV 

I  WOULD  I  had  been  born  in  nature's  day, 

When  man  was  in  the  world  a  wide-eyed  boy, 

And  clouds  of  sorrow  crossed  his  sky  of  joy 

To  scatter  dewdrops  on  the  buds  of  May. 

Then  could  he  work  and  love  and  fight  and  pray, 

Nor  heartsick  grow  in  fortune's  long  employ. 

Mighty  to  build  and  ruthless  to  destroy 

He  lived,  while  masked  death  unquestioned  lay. 

Now  ponder  we  the  ruins  of  the  years, 

And  groan  beneath  the  weight  of  boasted  gain ; 

No  unsung  bacchanal  can  charm  our  ears 

And  lead  our  dances  to  the  woodland  fane, 

No  hope  of  heaven  sweeten  our  few  tears 

And  hush  the  importunity  of  pain. 


DREAMT  I  to-day  the  dream  of  yesternight, 

Sleep  ever  feigning  one  evolving  theme, — 

Of  my  two  lives  which  should  I  call  the  dream? 

Which  action  vanity?  which  vision  sight? 

Some  greater  waking  must  pronounce  aright, 

If  aught  abideth  of  the  things  that  seem, 

And  with  both  currents  swell  the  flooded  stream 

Into  an  ocean  infinite  of  light. 

Even  such  a  dream  I  dream,  and  know  full  well 

My  waking  passeth  like  a  midnight  spell, 

But  know  not  if  my  dreaming  breaketh  through 

Into  the  deeps  of  heaven  and  of  hell. 

I  know  but  this  of  all  I  would  I  knew : 

Truth  is  a  dream,  unless  my  dream  is  true. 


VI 

LOVE  not  as  do  the  flesh-imprisoned  men 

Whose  dreams  are  of  a  bitter  bought  caress, 

Or  even  of  a  maiden's  tenderness 

Whom  they  love  only  that  she  loves  again. 

For  it  is  but  thyself  thou  lovest  then, 

Or  what  thy  thoughts  would  glory  to  possess; 

But  love  thou  nothing  thou  wouldst  love  the  less 

If  henceforth  ever  hidden  from  thy  ken. 

Love  but  the  formless  and  eternal  Whole 

From  whose  effulgence  one  unheeded  ray 

Breaks  on  this  prism  of  dissolving  clay 

Into  the  flickering  colours  of  thy  soul. 

These  flash  and  vanish;   bid  them  not  to  stay, 

For  wisdom  brightens  as  they  fade  away. 


VII 

I  WOULD  I  might  forget  that  I  am  I, 
And  break  the  heavy  chain  that  binds  me  fast, 
Whose  links  about  myself  my  deeds  have  cast. 
What  in  the  body's  tomb  doth  buried  lie 
Is  boundless ;    't  is  the  spirit  of  the  sky, 
Lord  of  the  future,  guardian  of  the  past, 
And  soon  must  forth,  to  know  his  own  at  last. 
In  his  large  life  to  live,  I  fain  would  die. 
Happy  the  dumb  beast,  hungering  for  food, 
But  calling  not  his  suffering  his  own; 
Blessed  the  angel,  gazing  on  all  good, 
But  knowing  not  he  sits  upon  a  throne ; 
Wretched  the  mortal,  pondering  his  mood, 
And  doomed  to  know  his  aching  heart  alone. 


VIII 

0  MARTYRED  Spirit  of  this  helpless  Whole, 
Who  dost  by  pain  for  tyranny  atone, 

And  in  the  star,  the  atom,  and  the  stone, 
Purgest  the  primal  guilt,  and  in  the  soul; 
Rich  but  in  grief,  thou  dost  thy  wealth  unroll, 
And  givest  of  thy  substance  to  thine  own, 
Mingling  the  love,  the  laughter,  and  the  groan 
In  the  large  hollow  of  the  heaven's  bowl. 
Fill  full  my  cup;   the  dregs  and  honeyed  brim 

1  take  from  thy  just  hand,  more  worthy  love 
For  sweetening  not  the  draught  for  me  or  him. 
What  in  myself  I  am,  that  let  me  prove; 
Relent  not  for  my  feeble  prayer,  nor  dim 

The  burning  of  thine  altar  for  my  hymn. 


10 


IX 

HAVE  patience;   it  is  fit  that  in  this  wise 

The  spirit  purge  away  its  proper  dross. 

No  endless  fever  doth  thy  watches  toss, 

For  by  excess  of  evil,  evil  dies. 

Soon  shall  the  faint  world  melt  before  thine  eyes, 

And,  all  life's  losses  cancelled  by  life's  loss, 

Thou  shalt  lay  down  all  burdens  on  thy  cross, 

And  be  that  day  with  God  in  Paradise. 

Have  patience;   for  a  long  eternity 

No  summons  woke  thee  from  thy  happy  sleep; 

For  love  of  God  one  vigil  thou  canst  keep 

And  add  thy  drop  of  sorrow  to  the  sea. 

Having  known  grief,  all  will  be  well  with  thee, 

Ay,  and  thy  second  slumber  will  be  deep. 


HAVE  I  the  heart  to  wander  on  the  earth, 
So  patient  hi  her  everlasting  course, 
Seeking  no  prize,  but  bowing  to  the  force 
That  gives  direction  and  hath  given  birth? 
Rain  tears,  sweet  Pity,  to  refresh  my  dearth, 
And  plough  my  sterile  bosom,  sharp  Remorse, 
That  I  grow  sick  and  curse  my  being's  source 
If  haply  one  day  passes  lacking  mirth. 
Doth  the  sun  therefore  burn,  that  I  may  bask? 
Or  dp  the  tired  earth  and  tireless  sea, 
That  toil  not  for  their  pleasure,  toil  for  me? 
Amid  the  world's  long  striving,  wherefore  ask 
What  reasons  were,  or  what  rewards  shall  be  ? 
The  covenant  God  gave  us  is  a  task. 


XI 

DEEM  not,  because  you  see  me  in  the  press 
Of  this  world's  children  run  my  fated  race, 
That  I  blaspheme  against  a  proffered  grace, 
Or  leave  unlearned  the  love  of  holiness. 
I  honour  not  that  sanctity  the  less 
Whose  aureole  illumines  not  my  face, 
But  dare  not  tread  the  secret,  holy  place 
To  which  the  priest  and  prophet  have  access. 
For  some  are  born  to  be  beatified 
By  anguish,  and  by  grievous  penance  done; 
And  some,  to  furnish  forth  the  age's  pride, 
And  to  be  praised  of  men  beneath  the  sun; 
And  some  are  corn  to  stand  perplexed  aside 
From  so  much  sorrow  —  of  whom  I  am  one. 


XII 

MIGHTIER  storms  than  this  are  brewed  on  earth    • 
That  pricks  the  crystal  lake  with  summer  showers. 
The  past  hath  treasure  of  sublimer  hours, 
And  God  is  witness  to  their  changeless  worth. 
Big  is  the  future  with  portentous  birth 
Of  battles  numberless,  and  nature's  powers 
Outdo  my  dreams  of  beauty  in  the  flowers, 
And  top  my  revels  with  the  demons'  mirth. 
But  thou,  glad  river  that  hast  reached  the  plain, 
Scarce  wak'st  the  rushes  to  a  slumberous  sigh. 
The  mountains  sleep  behind  thee,  and  the  main 
Awaits  thee,  lulling  an  eternal  pain 
With  patience;   nor  doth  Phcebe,  throned  on  high, 
The  mirror  of  thy  placid  heart  disdain. 


XIII 

OWEET  are  the  days  we  wander  with  no  hope 
Along  life's  labyrinthine  trodden  way, 
With  no  impatience  at  the  steep's  delay, 
Nor  sorrow  at  the  swift- descended  slope. 
Why  this  inane  curiosity  to  grope 
In  the  dim  dust  for  gems'  unmeaning  ray? 
Why  this  proud  piety,  that  dares  to  pray 
For  a  world  wider  than  the  heaven's  cope  ? 
Farewell,  my  burden !     No  more  will  I  bear 
The  foolish  load  of  my  fond  faith's  despair, 
But  trip  the  idle  race  with  careless  feet. 
The  crown  of  olive  let  another  wear; 
It  is  my  crown  to  mock  the  runner's  heat 
With  gentle  wonder  and  with  laughter  sweet. 


XIV 

IHERE  may  be  chaos  still  around  the  world, 
This  little  world  that  in  my  thinking  lies; 
For  mine  own  bosom  is  the  paradise 
Where  all  my  life's  fair  visions  are  unfurled. 
Within  my  nature's  shell  I  slumber  curled, 
Unmindtul  of  the  changing  outer  skies, 
Where  now,  perchance,  some  new-born  Eros  flies, 
Or  some  old  Cronos  from  his  throne  is  hurled. 
I  heed  them  not ;   or  if  the  subtle  night 
Haunt  me  with  deities  I  never  saw, 
I  soon  mine  eyelid's  drowsy  curtain  draw 
To  hide  their  myriad  faces  from  my  sight. 
They  threat  in  vain ;   the  whirlwind  cannot  awe 
A  happy  snow-flake  dancing  in  the  flaw. 


1 6 


XV 

A.  WALL,  a  wall  around  my  garden  rear, 

And  hedge  me  in  from  the  disconsolate  hills; 

Give  me  but  one  of  all  the  mountain  rills, 

Enough  of  ocean  in  its  voice  I  hear. 

Come  no  profane  insatiate  mortal  near 

With  the  contagion  of  his  passionate  ills ; 

The  smoke  of  battle  all  the  valleys  fills, 

Let  the  eternal  sunlight  greet  me  here. 

This  spot  is  sacred  to  the  deeper  soul 

And  to  the  piety  that  mocks  no  more. 

In  nature's  inmost  heart  is  no  uproar, 

None  in  this  shrine;   in  peace  the  heavens  roll, 

In  peace  the  slow  tides  pulse  from  shore  to  shore, 

And  ancient  quiet  broods  from  pole  to  pole. 


XVI 

A.  THOUSAND  beauties  that  have  never  been 
Haunt  me  with  hope  and  tempt  me  to  pursue; 
The  gods,  methinks,  dwell  just  behind  the  blue; 
The  satyrs  at  my  coming  fled  the  green. 
The  flitting  shadows  of  the  grove  between 
The  dryads'  eyes  were  winking,  and  I  knew 
The  wings  of  sacred  Eros  as  he  flew 
And  left  me  to  the  love  of  things  not  seen. 
T  is  a  sad  love,  like  an  eternal  prayer, 
And  knows  no  keen  delight,  no  faint  surcease. 
Yet  from  the  seasons  hath  the  earth  increase, 
And  heaven  shines  as  if  the  gods  were  there. 
Had  Dian  passed  there  could  no  deeper  peace 
Embalm  the  purple  stretches  of  the  air. 


XVII 

1  HERE  was  a  time  when  in  the  teeth  of  fate 
I  flung  the  challenge  of  the  spirit's  right; 
The  child,  the  dreamer  of  that  visioned  night, 
Woke,  and  was  humbled  unto  man's  estate. 
A  slave  I  am ;   on  sun  and  moon  I  wait, 
Who  heed  not  that  I  live  upon  their  light. 
Me  they  despise,  but  are  themselves  so  bright 
They  flood  my  heart  with  love,  and  quench  my  hate. 
O  subtle  Beauty,  sweet  persuasive  worth 
That  didst  the  love  of  being  first  inspire, 
We  do  thee  homage  both  in  death  and  birth. 
Thirsting  for  thee,  we  die  in  thy  great  dearth, 
Or  borrow  breath  of  infinite  desire 
To  chase  thine  image  through  the  haunted  earth. 


XVIII 

BLASPHEME  not  love,  ye  lovers,  nor  dispraise 
The  wise  divinity  that  makes  you  blind, 
Sealing  the  eyes,  but  showing  to  the  mind 
The  high  perfection  from  which  nature  strays. 
For  love  is  God,  and  in  unfathomed  ways 
Brings  forth  the  beauty  for  which  fancy  pined. 
I  loved,  and  lost  my  love  among  mankind; 
But  I  have  found  it  after  many  days. 
Oh,  trust  in  God,  and  banish  rash  despair, 
That,  feigning  evil,  is  itself  the  curse  ! 
My  angel  is  come  back,  more  sad  and  fair, 
And  witness  to  the  truth  of  love  I  bear, 
With  too  much  rapture  for  this  sacred  verse, 
At  the  exceeding  answer  to  my  prayer. 


XIX 

ABOVE  the  battlements  of  heaven  rise 

The  glittering  domes  of  the  gods'  golden  dwelling, 

Whence,  like  a  constellation,  passion-quelling, 

The  truth  of  all  things  feeds  immortal  eyes. 

There  all  forgotten  dreams  of  paradise 

From  the  deep  caves  of  memory  upwelling, 

All  tender  joys  beyond  our  dim  foretelling 

Are  ever  bright  beneath  the  flooded  skies. 

There  we  live  o'er,  amid  angelic  powers, 

Our  lives  without  remorse,  as  if  not  ours, 

And  others'  lives  with  love,  as  if  our  own; 

For  we  behold,  from  those  eternal  towers, 

The  deathless  beauty  of  all  winged  hours, 

And  have  our  being  in  their  truth  alone. 


XX 

IHESE  strewn   thoughts,  by  the   mountain  pathway 

sprung, 

I  conned  for  comfort,  till  I  ceased  to  grieve, 
And  with  these  flowering  thorns  I  dare  to  weave 
The  crown,  great  Mother,  on  thine  altar  hung. 
Teach  thou  a  larger  speech  to  my  loosed  tongue, 
And  to  mine  opened  eyes  thy  secrets  give, 
That  in  thy  perfect  love  I  learn  to  live, 
And  in  thine  immortality  be  young. 
The  soul  is  not  on  earth  an  alien  thing 
That  hath  her  life's  rich  sources  otherwhere; 
She  is  a  parcel  of  the  sacred  air. 
She  takes  her  being  from  the  breath  of  Spring, 
The  glance  of  Phoebus  is  her  fount  of  light, 
And  her  long  sleep  a  draught  of  primal  night. 


SONNETS 

SECOND  SERIES 


XXI 

AMONG  the  myriad  voices  of  the  Spring 

What  were  the  voice  of  my  supreme  desire, 

What  were  my  cry  amid  the  vernal  choir, 

Or  my  complaint  before  the  gods  that  sing? 

O  too  late  love,  O  flight  on  wounded  wing, 

Infinite  hope  my  lips  should  not  suspire, 

Why,  when  the  world  is  thine,  my  grief  require, 

Or  mock  my  dear-bought  patience  with  thy  sting? 

Though  I  be  mute,  the  birds  will  in  the  boughs 

Sing  as  in  every  April  they  have  sung, 

And,  though  I  die,  the  incense  of  heart-vows 

Will  float  to  heaven,  as  when  I  was  young. 

But,  O  ye  beauties  I  must  never  see, 

How  great  a  lover  have  you  lost  in  me  ! 


XXII 

Xis  love  that  moveth  the  celestial  spheres 
In  endless  yearning  for  the  Changeless  One, 
And  the  stars  sing  together,  as  they  run 
To  number  the  innumerable  years. 
Tis  love  that  lifteth  through  their  dewy  tears 
The  roses'  beauty  to  the  heedless  sun, 
And  with  no  hope,  nor  any  guerdon  won, 
Love  leads  me  on,  nor  end  of  love  appears. 
For  the  same  breath  that  did  awake  the  flowers, 
Making  them  happy  with  a  joy  unknown, 
Kindled  my  light  and  fixed  my  spirit's  goal ; 
And  the  same  hand  that  reined  the  flying  hours 
And  chained  the  whirling  earth  to  Phoebus'  throne, 
In  love's  eternal  orbit  keeps  the  soul. 


26 


XXIII 

Bur  is  this  love,  that  in  my  hollow  breast 

Gnaws  like  a  silent  poison,  till  I  faint? 

Is  this  the  vision  that  the  haggard  saint 

Fed  with  his  vigils,  till  he  found  his  rest? 

Is  this  the  hope  that  piloted  thy  quest, 

Knight  of  the  Grail,  and  kept  thy  heart  from  taint? 

Is  this  the  heaven,  poets,  that  ye  paint? 

Oh,  then,  how  like  damnation  to  be  blest ! 

This  is  not  love :  it  is  that  worser  thing  — 

Hunger  for  love,  while  love  is  yet  to  learn. 

Thy  peace  is  gone,  my  soul ;    thou  long  must  yearn. 

Long  is  thy  winter's  pilgrimage,  till  spring 

And  late  home-coming;  long  ere  thou  return 

To  where  the  seraphs  covet  not,  and  burn. 


XXIV 

ALTHOUGH  I  decked  a  chamber  for  my  bride, 
And  found  a  moonlit  garden  for  the  tryst 
Wherein  all  flowers  looked  happy  as  we  kissed, 
Hath  the  deep  heart  of  me  been  satisfied? 
The  chasm  'twixt  our  spirits  yawns  as  wide 
Though  our  lips  meet,  and  clasp  thee  as  I  list, 
The  something  perfect  that  I  love  is  missed, 
And  my  warm  worship  freezes  into  pride. 
But  why  —  O  waywardness  of  nature  !  —  why 
Seek  farther  in  the  world?   I  had  my  choice, 
And  we  said  we  were  happy,  you  and  I. 
Why  in  the  forest  should  I  hear  a  cry, 
Or  in  the  sea  an  unavailing  voice, 
Or  feel  a  pang  to  look  upon  the  sky? 


28 


XXV 

As  in  the  midst  of  battle  there  is  room 

For  thoughts  of  love,  and  in  foul  sin  for  mirth; 

As  gossips  whisper  of  a  trinket's  worth 

Spied  by  the  death-bed's  nickering  candle-gloom; 

As  in  the  crevices  of  Caesar's  tomb 

The  sweet  herbs  flourish  on  a  little  earth : 

So  in  this  great  disaster  of  our  birth 

We  can  be  happy,  and  forget  our  doom. 

For  morning,  with  a  ray  of  tenderest  joy 

Gilding  the  iron  heaven,  hides  the  truth, 

And  evening  gently  woos  us  to  employ 

Our  grief  in  idle  catches.     Such  is  youth; 

Till  from  that  summer's  trance  we  wake,  to  find 

Despair  before  us,  vanity  behind. 


29 


XXVI 

OH,  if  the  heavy  last  unuttered  groan 

That  lieth  here  could  issue  to  the  air, 

Then  might  God's  peace  descend  on  my  despair 

And  seal  this  heart  as  with  a  mighty  stone. 

For  what  sin,  Heaven,  must  I  thus  atone? 

Was  it  a  sin  to  love  what  seemed  so  fair? 

If  thou  deny  me  hope,  why  give  me  care? 

I  have  not  lived,  and  die  alone,  alone. 

This  is  not  new.     Many  have  perished  so. 

Long  years  of  nothing,  with  some  days  of  grief, 

Made  their  sad  life.     Their  own  hand  sought  relief 

Too  late  to  find  it,  impotently  slow. 

I  know,  strong  Fate,  the  trodden  way  I  go. 

Joy  lies  behind  me.     Be  the  journey  brief. 


XXVII 

OLEEP  hath  composed  the  anguish  of  my  brain, 

And  ere  the  dawn  I  will  arise  and  pray. 

Strengthen  me,  Heaven,  and  attune  my  lay 

Unto  my  better  angel's  clear  refrain. 

For  I  can  hear  him  in  the  night  again, 

The  breathless  night,  snow-smothered,  happy,  grey, 

With  premonition  of  the  jocund  day, 

Singing  a  quiet  carol  to  my  pain. 

Slowly,  saith  he,  the  April  buds  are  growing 

In  the  chill  core  of  twigs  all  leafless  now; 

Gently,  beneath  the  weight  of  last  night's  snowing, 

Patient  of  winter's  hand,  the  branches  bow. 

Each  buried  seed  lacks  light  as  much  as  thou. 

Wait  for  the  spring,  brave  heart ;  there  is  no  knowing. 


XXVIII 

Our  of  the  dust  the  queen  of  roses  springs ; 

The  brackish  depths  of  the  blown  waters  bear 

Blossoms  of  foam ;  the  common  mist  and  air 

Weave  Vesper's  holy,  pity-laden  wings. 

So  from  sad,  mortal,  and  unhallowed  things 

Bud  stars  that  in  their  crowns  the  angels  wear; 

And  worship  of  the  infinitely  fair 

Flows  from  thine  eyes,  as  wise  Petrarca  sings : 

"  Hence  comes  the  understanding  of  love's  scope, 

That,  seeking  thee,  to  perfect  good  aspires, 

Accounting  little  what  all  flesh  desires; 

And  hence  the  spirit's  happy  pinions  ope 

In  flight  impetuous  to  the  heaven's  choirs : 

Wherefore  I  walk  already  proud  in  hope." 


XXIX 

WHAT  riches  have  you  that  you  deem  me  poor, 
Or  what  large  comfort  that  you  call  me  sad? 
Tell  me  what  makes  you  so  exceeding  glad : 
Is  your  earth  happy  or  your  heaven  sure? 
I  hope  for  heaven,  since  the  stars  endure 
And  bring  such  tidings  as  our  fathers  had. 
I  know  no  deeper  doubt  to  make  me  mad, 
I  need  no  brighter  love  to  keep  me  pure. 
To  me  the  faiths  of  old  are  daily  bread; 
I  bless  their  hope,  I  bless  their  will  to  save, 
And  my  deep  heart  still  meaneth  what  they  said. 
It  makes  me  happy  that  the  soul  is  brave, 
And,  being  so  much  kinsman  to  the  dead, 
I  walk  contented  to  the  peopled  grave. 


33 


XXX 

LET  my  lips  touch  thy  lips,  and  my  desire 

Contagious  fever  be,  to  set  a-glow 

The  blood  beneath  thy  whiter  breast  than  snow  — 

Wonderful  snow,  that  so  can  kindle  fire  ! 

Abandon  to  what  gods  in  us  conspire 

Thy  little  wisdom,  sweetest;   for  they  know. 

Is  it  not  something  that  I  love  thee  so? 

Take  that  from  life,  ere  death  thine  all  require. 

But  no !     Then  would  a  mortal  warmth  disperse 

That  beauteous  snow  to  water-drops,  which,  turned 

To  marble,  had  escaped  the  primal  curse. 

Be  still  a  goddess,  till  my  heart  have  burned 

Its  sacrifice  before  thee,  and  my  verse 

Told  this  late  world  the  love  that  I  have  learned. 


34 


XXXI 

A  BROTHER'S  love,  but  that  I  chose  thee  out 
From  all  the  world,  not  by  the  chance  of  birth, 
But  in  the  risen  splendour  of  thy  worth, 
Which,  like  the  sun,  put  all  my  stars  to  rout. 
A  lover's  love,  but  that  it  bred  no  doubt 
Of  love  returned,  no  heats  of  flood  and  dearth, 
But,  asking  nothing,  found  in  all  the  earth 
The  consolation  of  a  heart  devout. 
A  votary's  love,  though  with  no  pale  and  wild 
Imaginations  did  I  stretch  the  might 
Of  a  sweet  friendship  and  a  mortal  light. 
Thus  in  my  love  all  loves  are  reconciled 
That  purest  be,  and  in  my  prayer  the  right 
Of  brother,  lover,  friend,  and  eremite. 


35 


XXXII 

LET  not  thy  bosom,  to  my  foes  allied, 
Insult  my  sorrow  with  this  coat  of  mail, 
When  for  thy  strong  defence,  if  love  assail, 
Thou  hast  the  world,  thy  virtue,  and  my  pride. 
But  if  thine  own  clear  eyes  I  see  beside 
Sharpened  against  me,  then  my  strength  will  fail, 
Abandoning  sail  and  rudder  to  the  gale 
For  thy  sweet  sake  alone  so  long  defied. 
If  I  am  poor,  in  death  how  rich  and  brave 
Will  seem  my  spirit  with  the  love  it  gave; 
If  I  am  sad,  I  shall  seem  happy  then. 
Be  mine,  be  mine  in  God  and  in  the  grave, 
Since  naught  but  chance  and  the  insensate  wave 
Divides  us,  and  the  wagging  tongue  of  men. 


XXXIII 

A  PERFECT  love  is  nourished  by  despair. 

I  am  thy  pupil  in  the  school  of  pain; 

Mine  eyes  will  not  reproach  thee  for  disdain, 

But  thank  thy  rich  disdain  for  being  fair. 

Aye  !   the  proud  sorrow,  the  eternal  prayer 

Thy  beauty  taught,  what  shall  unteach  again? 

Hid  from  my  sight,  thou  livest  in  my  brain; 

Fled  from  my  bosom,  thou  abidest  there. 

And  though  they  buried  thee,  and  called  thee  dead, 

And  told  me  I  should  never  see  thee  more, 

The  violets  that  grew  above  thy  head 

Would  waft  thy  breath  and  tell  thy  sweetness  o'er, 

And  every  rose  thy  scattered  ashes  bred 

Would  to  my  sense  thy  loveliness  restore. 


37 


XXXIV 

THOUGH  destiny  half  broke  her  cruel  bars, 

Herself  contriving  we  should  meet  on  earth, 

And  with  thy  beauty  fed  my  spirit's  dearth 

And  tuned  to  love  the  ages'  many  jars, 

Yet  there  is  potency  in  natal  stars; 

And  we  were  far  divided  in  our  birth 

By  nature's  gifts  and  half  the  planet's  girth, 

And  speech,  and  faith,  and  blood,  and  ancient  wars. 

Alas !   thy  very  radiance  made  division, 

Thy  youth,  thy  friends,  and  all  men's  eyes  that  wooed  . 

Thy  simple  kindness  came  as  in  derision 

Of  so  much  love  and  so  much  solitude; 

Or  did  the  good  gods  order  all  to  show 

How  far  the  single  strength  of  love  can  go? 


XXXV 

WE  needs  must  be  divided  in  the  tomb, 

For  I  would  die  among  the  hills  of  Spain, 

And  o'er  the  treeless  melancholy  plain 

Await  the  coming  of  the  final  gloom. 

But  thou  —  O  pitiful !  —  wilt  find  scant  room 

Among  thy  kindred  by  the  northern  main, 

And  fade  into  the  drifting  mist  again, 

The  hemlocks'  shadow,  or  the  pines'  perfume. 

Let  gallants  lie  beside  their  ladies'  dust 

In  one  cold  grave,  with  mortal  love  inurned; 

Let  the  sea  part  our  ashes,  if  it  must. 

The  souls  fled  thence  which  love  immortal  burned, 

For  they  were  wedded  without  bond  of  lust, 

And  nothing  of  our  heart  to  earth  returned. 


XXXVI 

WE  were  together,  and  I  longed  to  tell 

How  drop  by  silent  drop  my  bosom  bled. 

I  took  some  verses  full  of  you,  and  read, 

Waiting  for  God  to  work  some  miracle. 

They  told  how  love  had  plunged  in  burning  hell 

One  half  my  soul,  while  the  other  half  had  fled 

Upon  love's  wings  to  heaven ;  and  you  said  : 

"  I  like  the  verses ;  they  are  written  well." 

If  I  had  knelt  confessing  "  It  is  you, 

You  are  my  torment  and  my  rapture  too," 

I  should  have  seen  you  rise  in  flushed  disdain : 

« For  shame  to  say  so,  be  it  false  or  true  !  " 

And  the  sharp  sword  that  ran  me  through  and  through, 

On  your  white  bosom  too  had  left  a  stain. 


XXXVII 

AND  I  was  silent.     Now  you  do  not  know, 
But  read  these  very  words  with  vacant  eyes, 
And,  as  you  turn  the  page,  peruse  the  skies, 
And  I  go  by  you  as  a  cloud  might  go. 
You  are  not  cruel,  though  you  dealt  the  blow. 
And  I  am  happy,  though  I  miss  the  prize ; 
For,  when  God  tells  you,  you  will  not  despise 
The  love  I  bore  you.     It  is  better  so. 
My  soul  is  just,  and  thine  without  a  stain. 
Why  should  not  life  divide  us,  whose  division 
Is  frail  and  passing,  as  its  union  vain? 
All  things  'neath  other  planets  will  grow  plain 
When,  as  we  wander  through  the  fields  Elysian, 
Eternal  echoes  haunt  us  of  this  pain. 


XXXVIII 

OH,  not  for  me,  for  thee,  dear  God,  her  head 

Shines  with  this  perfect  golden  aureole, 

For  thee  this  sweetness  doth  possess  her  soul, 

And  to  thy  chambers  are  her  footsteps  led. 

The  light  will  live  that  on  my  path  she  shed, 

While  any  pilgrim  yet  hath  any  goal, 

And  heavenly  musicians  from  their  scroll 

Will  sing  all  her  sweet  words,  when  I  am  dead. 

In  her  unspotted  heart  is  steadfast  faith 

Fed  on  high  thoughts,  and  in  her  beauteous  face 

The  fountain  of  the  love  that  conquers  death ; 

And  as  I  see  her  in  her  kneeling-place, 

A  Gabriel  comes,  and  with  inaudible  breath 

Whispers  within  me :  Hail,  thou  full  of  grace. 


42 


XXXIX 

THE  world  will  say,  "What  mystic  love  is  this? 
What  ghostly  mistress?    What  angelic  friend?" 
Read,  masters,  your  own  passion  to  the  end, 
And  tell  me  then  if  I  have  writ  amiss. 
When  all  loves  die  that  hang  upon  a  kiss, 
And  must  with  cavil  and  with  chance  contend, 
Their  risen  selves  with  the  eternal  blend 
Where  perfect  dying  is  their  perfect  bliss. 
And  might  I  kiss  her  once,  asleep  or  dead, 
Upon  the  forehead  or  the  globed  eyes, 
Or  where  the  gold  is  parted  on  her  head, 
That  kiss  would  help  me  on  to  paradise 
As  if  I  kissed  the  consecrated  bread 
In  which  the  buried  soul  of  Jesus  lies. 


43 


XL 

IF,  when  the  story  of  my  love  is  old, 

This  book  should  live  and  lover's  leisure  feed, 

Fair  charactered,  for  bluest  eye  to  read, 

And  richly  bound,  for  whitest  hand  to  hold, — 

O  limn  me  then  this  lovely  head  in  gold, 

And,  limner,  the  soft  lips  and  lashes  heed, 

And  set  her  in  the  midst,  my  love  indeed, 

The  sweet  eyes  tender,  and  the  broad  brow  cold. 

And  never  let  thy  colours  think  to  cast 

A  brighter  splendour  on  her  beauties  past, 

Or  venture  to  disguise  a  fancied  flaw; 

Let  not  thy  painting  falsify  my  rhyme, 

But  perfect  keep  the  mould  for  after  time, 

And  let  the  whole  world  see  her  as  I  saw. 


XLI 

YET  why,  of  one  who  loved  thee  not,  command 
Thy  counterfeit,  for  other  men  to  see, 
When  God  himself  did  on  my  heart  for  me 
Thy  face,  like  Christ's  upon  the  napkin,  brand? 

0  how  much  subtler  than  a  painter's  hand 
Is  love  to  render  back  the  truth  of  thee  ! 
My  soul  should  be  thy  glass  in  time  to  be, 
And  in  my  thought  thine  effigy  should  stand. 
Yet,  lest  the  churlish  critics  of  that  age 
Should  flout  my  praise,  and  deem  a  lover's  rage 
Could  gild  a  virtue  and  a  grace  exceed, 

1  bid  thine  image  here  confront  my  page, 
That  men  may  look  upon  thee  as  they  read, 
And  cry:   Such  eyes  a  better  poet  need. 


45 


XLII 

As  when  the  sceptre  dangles  from  the  hand 

Of  some  king  doting,  faction  runneth  wild, 

Thieves  shake  their  chains  and  traitors,  long  exiled, 

Hover  about  the  confines  of  the  land, 

Till  the  young  Prince,  anointed,  takes  command, 

Full  of  high  purpose,  simple,  trustful,  mild, 

And,  smitten  by  his  radiance  undefiled, 

The  ruffians  are  abashed,  the  cowards  stand :  — 

So  in  my  kingdom  riot  and  despair 

Lived  by  thy  lack,  and  called  for  thy  control, 

But  at  thy  coming  all  the  world  grew  fair; 

Away  before  thy  face  the  villains  stole, 

And  panoplied  I  rose  to  do  and  bear, 

When  love  his  clarion  sounded  in  my  soul. 


46 


XLIII 

1  HE  candour  of  the  gods  is  in  thy  gaze, 
The  strength  of  Dian  in  thy  virgin  hand, 
Commanding  as  the  goddess  might  command, 
And  lead  her  lovers  into  higher  ways. 
Aye,  the  gods  walk  among  us  in  these  days, 
Had  we  the  doeile  soul  to  understand ; 
And  me  they  visit  in  this  joyless  land, 
To  cheer  mine  exile  and  receive  my  praise. 
For  once,  methinks,  before  the  angels  fell, 
Thou,  too,  didst  follow  the  celestial  seven 
Threading  in  file  the  meads  of  asphodel. 
And  when  thou  comest,  lady,  where  I  dwell, 
The  place  is  flooded  with  the  light  of  heaven 
And  a  lost  music  I  remember  well. 


XLIV 

.TOR  thee  the  sun  doth  daily  rise,  and  set 
Behind  the  curtain  of  the  hills  of  sleep, 
And  my  soul,  passing  through  the  nether  deep, 
Broods  on  thy  love,  and  never  can  forget. 
For  thee  the  garlands  of  the  wood  are  wet, 
For  thee  the  daisies  up  the  meadow's  sweep 
Stir  in  the  sidelong  light,  and  for  thee  weep 
The  drooping  ferns  above  the  violet. 
For  thee  the  labour  of  my  studious  ease 
I  ply  with  hope,  for  thee  all  pleasures  please, 
Thy  sweetness  doth  the  bread  of  sorrow  leaven; 
And  from  thy  noble  lips  and  heart  of  gold 
I  drink  the  comfort  of  the  faiths  of  old, 
And  thy  perfection  is  my  proof  of  heaven. 


48 


XLV 

JT  LOWER  of  the  world,  bright  angel,  single  friend  ! 

I  never  asked  of  Heaven  thou  shouldst  love  me ; 

As  well  ask  Heaven's  self  that  spreads  above  me 

With  all  his  stars  about  my  head  to  bend 

It  is  enough  my  spirit  may  ascend 

And  clasp  the  good  whence  nothing  can  remove  me ; 

Enough,  if  faith  and  hope  and  love  approve  me, 

And  make  me  worthy  of  the  blessed  end. 

And  as  a  pilgrim  from  the  path  withdraws, 

Seeing  Christ  carven  on  the  holy  rood, 

And  breathes  an  AVE  in  the  solitude, 

So  will  I  stop  and  pray  —  for  I  have  cause  — 

And  in  all  crossways  of  my  thinking  pause 

Before  thine  image,  saying:  God  is  good. 


49 


XLVI 

WHEN  I  survey  the  harvest  of  the  year 

And  from  time's  threshing  garner  up  the  grain, 

What  profit  have  I  of  forgotten  pain, 

What  comfort,  heart-locked,  for  the  winter's  cheer? 

The  season's  yield  is  this,  that  thou  art  dear, 

And  that  I  love  thee,  that  is  all  my  gain; 

The  rest  was  chaff,  blown  from  the  weary  brain 

Where  now  thy  treasured  image  lieth  clear. 

How  liberal  is  beauty  that,  but  seen, 

Makes  rich  the  bosom  of  her  silent  lover ! 

How  excellent  is  truth,  on  which  I  lean  ! 

Yet  my  religion  were  a  charmed  despair, 

Did  I  not  in  thy  perfect  heart  discover 

I  low  beauty  can  be  true  and  virtue  fair. 


XLVI1 

1  nou  hast  no  name,  or,  if  a  name  thou  ben  rest, 
To  none  it  mcancth  what  it  means  to  me : 
Thy  form,  the  loveliness  the  world  can  see, 
Makes  not  the  glory  that  to  me  than  wcarcst. 
Nor  thine  unuttcrcd  thoughts,  though  they  be  fairest 
And  shaming  all  that   in   rude  bosoms  be: 
All  they  an-  but  the  thousandth   part  of  thee, 
Which  thou  with  blessed  spirits  haply  sharcst. 
But  incommunicable,  peerless,  dim, 
Flooding  my  heart  with  anguish  of  despair, 
Thou  walkest,  love,  before  me,  shade  of  Him 
Who  only  liveth,  giveth,  and  is  fair. 
And  constant  ever,  though   inconstant    known, 
In  all  my  loves  I  worshipped  thec  alone. 


'.' 


XLVIII 

OF  Helen's  brothers,  one  was  born  to  die 
And  one  immortal,  who,  the  fable  saith, 
Gave  to  the  other  that  was  nigh  to  death 
One  half  his  widowed  immortality. 
They  would  have  lived  and  died  alternately, 
Breathing  each  other's  warm  transmuted  breath, 
Had  not  high  Zeus,  who  justly  ordereth, 
Made  them  twin  stars  to  shine  eternally. 
My  heart  was  dying  when  thy  flame  of  youth 
Flooded  its  chambers  through  my  gazing  eyes. 
My  life  is  now  thy  beauty  and  thy  truth. 
Thou  wouldst  come  down,  forsaking  paradise 
To  be  my  comfort,  but  by  Heaven's  ruth 
I  go  to  burn  beside  thee  in  the  skies. 


XLIX 

AFTER  grey  vigils,  sunshine  in  the  heart ; 

After  long  fasting  on  the  journey,  food; 

After  sharp  thirst,  a  draught  of  perfect  good 

To  flood  the  soul,  and  heal  her  ancient  smart. 

Joy  of  my  sorrow,  never  can  we  part; 

Thou  broodest  o'er  me  in  the  haunted  wood, 

And  with  new  music  filPst  the  solitude 

By  but  so  sweetly  being  what  thou  art. 

He  who  hath  made  thee  perfect,  makes  me  blest. 

O  fiery  minister,  on  mighty  wings 

Bear  me,  great  love,  to  mine  eternal  rest. 

Heaven  it  is  to  be  at  peace  with  things; 

Come  chaos  now,  and  in  a  whirlwind's  rings 

Engulf  the  planets.     I  have  seen  the  best. 


53 


1  HOUGH  utter  death  should  swallow  up  my  hope 
And  choke  with  dust  the  mouth  of  my  desire, 
Though  no  dawn  burst,  and  no  aurorean  choir 
Sing  GLORIA  DEO  when  the  heavens  ope, 
Yet  have  I  light  of  love,  nor  need  to  grope 
Lost,  wholly  lost,  without  an  inward  fire; 
The  flame  that  quickeneth  the  world  entire 
Leaps  in  my  breast,  with  cruel  death  to  cope. 
Hath  not  the  night-environed  earth  her  flowers? 
Hath  not  my  grief  the  blessed  joy  of  thee? 
Is  not  the  comfort  of  these  singing  hours, 
Full  of  thy  perfectness,  enough  for  me? 
They  are  not  evil,  then,  those  hidden  powers: 
One  love  sufficeth  an  eternity. 


54 


ON  A  VOLUME  OF  SCHOLASTIC  PHILOSOPHY 

WHAT  chilly  cloister  or  what  lattice  dim 
Cast  painted  light  upon  this  careful  page? 
What  thought  compulsive  held  the  patient  sage 
Till  sound  of  matin  bell  or  evening  hymn? 
Did  visions  of  the  Heavenly  Lover  swim 
Before  his  eyes  in  youth,  or  did  stern  rage 
Against  rash  heresy  keep  green  his  age? 
Had  he  seen  God,  to  write  so  much  of  Him? 
Gone  is  that  irrecoverable  mind 
With  all  its  phantoms,  senseless  to  mankind 
As  a  dream's  trouble  or  the  speech  of  birds. 
The  breath  that  stirred  his  lips  he  soon  resigned 
To  windy  chaos,  and  we  only  find 
The  garnered  husks  of  his  disused  words. 


55 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  METAPHYSICIAN 

UNHAPPY  dreamer,  who  outwinged  in  flight 
The  pleasant  region  of  the  things  I  love, 
And  soared  beyond  the  sunshine,  and  above 
The  golden  cornfields  and  the  dear  and  bright 
Warmth  of  the  hearth,  —  blasphemer  of  delight, 
Was  your  proud  bosom  not  at  peace  with  Jove, 
That  you  sought,  thankless  for  his  guarded  grove, 
The  empty  horror  of  abysmal  night? 
Ah,  the  thin  air  is  cold  above  the  moon  ! 
I  stood  and  saw  you  fall,  befooled  in  death, 
As,  in  your  numbed  spirit's  fatal  swoon, 
You  cried  you  were  a  god,  or  were  to  be; 
I  heard  with  feeble  moan  your  boastful  breath 
Bubble  from  depths  of  the  Icarian  sea. 


ON   A  PIECE   OF  TAPESTRY 

HOLD  high  the  woof,  dear  friends,  that  we  may  see 

The  cunning  mixture  of  its  colours  rare. 

Nothing  in  nature  purposely  is  fair, — 

Her  mingled  beauties  never  quite  agree ; 

But  here  all  vivid  dyes  that  garish  be, 

To  that  tint  mellowed  which  the  sense  will  bear, 

Glow,  and  not  wound  the  eye  that,  resting  there, 

Lingers  to  feed  its  gentle  ecstasy. 

Crimson  and  purple  and  all  hues  of  wine, 

Saffron  and  russet,  brown  and  sober  green 

Are  rich  the  shadowy  depths  of  blue  between; 

While  silver  threads  with  golden  intertwine, 

To  catch  the  glimmer  of  a  fickle  sheen,  — 

All  the  long  labour  of  some  captive  queen. 


57 


THE   POWER  OF  ART 

JNoT  human  art,  but  living  gods  alone 
Can  fashion  beauties  that  by  changing  live,  — 
Her  buds  to  spring,  his  fruits  to  autumn  give, 
To  earth  her  fountains  in  her  heart  of  stone; 
But  these  in  their  begetting  are  o'erthrown, 
Nor  may  the  sentenced  minutes  find  reprieve ; 
And  summer  in  the  blush  of  joy  must  grieve 
To  shed  his  flaunting  crown  of  petals  blown. 
We  to  our  works  may  not  impart  our  breath, 
Nor  them  with  shifting  light  of  life  array; 
We  show  but  what  one  happy  moment  saith; 
Yet  may  our  hands  immortalize  the  day 
When  life  was  sweet,  and  save  from  utter  death 
The  sacred  past  that  should  not  pass  away. 


GABRIEL 

I  KNOW  thou  art  a  man,  thou  hast  his  mould; 

Thy  wings  are  fancy  and  a  poet's  lie, 

Thy  halo  but  the  dimness  of  his  eye, 

And  thy  fair  chivalry  a  legend  old. 

Yet  I  mistrust  the  truth,  and  partly  hold 

Thou  art  a  herald  of  the  upper  sky, 

Where  all  the  truth  yet  lives  that  seemed  to  die, 

And  love  is  never  faint  nor  virtue  cold. 

I  still  would  see  thee  spotless,  fervent,  calm, 

With  heaven  in  thine  eyes,  and  with  the  mild 

White  lily  in  one  hand,  in  one  the  palm, 

Bringing  the  world  that  rapture  undefiled 

Which  Mary  knew,  when,  answering  with  a  psalm 

Thine  Avet  she  conceived  her  holy  Child. 


59 


TO  W.  P. 

I 

CALM  was  the  sea  to  which  your  course  you  kept, 
Oh,  how  much  calmer  than  all  southern  seas ! 
Many  your  nameless  mates,  whom  the  keen  breeze 
Wafted  from  mothers  that  of  old  have  wept. 
All  souls  of  children  taken  as  they  slept 
Are  your  companions,  partners  of  your  ease, 
And  the  green  souls  of  all  these  autumn  trees 
Are  with  you  through  the  silent  spaces  swept. 
Your  virgin  body  gave  its  gentle  breath 
Untainted  to  the  gods.    Why  should  we  grieve, 
But  that  we  merit  not  your  holy  death? 
We  shall  not  loiter  long,  your  friends  and  I; 
Living  you  made  it  goodlier  to  live, 
Dead  you  will  make  it  easier  to  die. 


60 


II 

WITH  you  a  part  of  me  hath  passed  away; 

For  in  the  peopled  forest  of  my  mind 

A  tree  made  leafless  by  this  wintry  wind 

Shall  never  don  again  its  green  array. 

Chapel  and  fireside,  country  road  and  bay, 

Have  something  of  their  friendliness  resigned  ; 

Another,  if  I  would,  I  could  not  find, 

And  I  am  grown  much  older  in  a  day. 

But  yet  I  treasure  in  my  memory 

Your  gift  of  charity,  your  mellow  ease, 

And  the  dear  honour  of  your  amity ; 

For  these  once  mine,  my  life  is  rich  with  these. 

And  I  scarce  know  which  part  may  greater  be, - 

What  I  keep  of  you,  or  you  rob  from  me. 


Gi 


Ill 

Y  OUR  ship  lies  anchored  in  the  peaceful  bight 
Until  a  kinder  wind  unfurl  her  sail; 
Your  docile  spirit,  winged  by  this  gale, 
Hath  at  the  dawning  fled  into  the  light. 
And  I  half  know  why  heaven  deemed  it  right 
Your  youth,  and  this  my  joy  in  youth,  should  fail; 
God  hath  them  still,  for  ever  they  avail, 
Eternity  hath  borrowed  that  delight. 
For  long  ago  I  taught  my  thoughts  to  run 
Where  all  the  great  things  live  that  lived  of  yore, 
And  in  eternal  quiet  float  and  soar; 
There  all  my  loves  are  gathered  into  one, 
Where  change  is  not,  nor  parting  any  more, 
Nor  revolution  of  the  moon  and  sun. 


IV 

IN  my  deep  heart  these  chimes  would  still  have  rung 

To  toll  your  passing,  had  you  not  been  dead; 

For  time  a  sadder  mask  than  death  may  spread 

Over  the  face  that  ever  should  be  young. 

The  bough  that  falls  with  all  its  trophies  hung 

Falls  not  too  soon,  but  lays  its  flower-crowned  head 

Most  royal  in  the  dust,  with  no  leaf  shed 

Unhallowed  or  unchiselled  or  unsung. 

And  though  the  after  world  will  never  hear 

The  happy  name  of  one  so  gently  true, 

Nor  chronicles  write  large  this  fatal  year, 

Yet  we  who  loved  you,  though  we  be  but  few, 

Keep  you  in  whatsoe'er  is  good,  and  rear 

In  our  weak  virtues  monuments  to  you. 


ODES 


ODES 

I 

WHAT  god  will  choose  me  from  this  labouring  nation 
To  worship  him  afar,  with  inward  gladness, 
At  sunset  and  at  sunrise,  in  some  Persian 
Garden  of  roses ; 

Or  under  the  full  moon,  in  rapturous  silence, 
Charmed  by  the  trickling  fountain,  and  the  moaning 
Of  the  death-hallowed  cypress,  and  the  myrtle 
Hallowed  by  Venus? 

O  for  a  chamber  in  an  eastern  tower, 
Spacious  and  empty,  roofed  in  odorous  cedar, 
A  silken  soft  divan,  a  woven  carpet 
Rich,  many- coloured ; 


A  jug  that,  poised  on  her  firm  head,  a  negress 
Fetched  from  the  well;  a  window  to  the  ocean, 
Lest  of  the  stormy  world  too  deep  seclusion 
Make  me  forgetful ! 

Thence  I  might  watch  the  vessel-bearing  waters 
Beat  the  slow  pulses  of  the  life  eternal, 
Bringing  of  nature's  universal  travail 
Infinite  echoes; 

And  there  at  even  I  might  stand  and  listen 
To  thrum  of  distant  lutes  and  dying  voices 
Chanting  the  ditty  an  Arabian  captive 
Sang  to  Darius. 

So  would  I  dream  awhile,  and  ease  a  little 
The  soul  long  stifled  and  the  straitened  spirit, 
Tasting  new  pleasures  in  a  far-off  country 
Sacred  to  beauty. 


68 


II 

MY  heart  rebels  against  my  generation, 
That  talks  of  freedom  and  is  slave  to  riches, 
And,  toiling  'neath  each  day's  ignoble  burden, 
Boasts  of  the  morrow. 

No  space  for  noonday  rest  or  midnight  watches, 
No  purest  joy  of  breathing  under  heaven ! 
Wretched  themselves,  they  heap,  to  make  them  happy, 
Many  possessions. 

But  thou,  O  silent  Mother,  wise,  immortal, 

To  whom  our  toil  is  laughter,  —  take,  divine  one, 

This  vanity  a\vay,  and  to  thy  lover 

Give  what  is  needful :  — 


69 


A  staunch  heart,  nobly  calm,  averse  to  evil, 
The  windy  sky  for  breath,  the  sea,  the  mountain, 
A  well-born,  gentle  friend,  his  spirit's  brother, 
Ever  beside  him. 

What  would  you  gain,  ye  seekers,  with  your  striving, 
Or  what  vast  Babel  raise  you  on  your  shoulders? 
You  multiply  distresses,  and  your  children 
Surely  will  curse  you. 

O  leave  them  rather  friendlier  gods,  and  fairer 
Orchards  and  temples,  and  a  freer  bosom ! 
What  better  comfort  have  we,  or  what  other 
Profit  in  living, 

Than  to  feed,  sobered  by  the  truth  of  Nature, 
Awhile  upon  her  bounty  and  her  beauty, 
And  hand  her  torch  of  gladness  to  the  ages 
Following  after? 


70 


She  hath  not  made  us,  like  her  other  children, 
Merely  for  peopling  of  her  spacious  kingdoms, 
Beasts  of  the  wild,  or  insects  of  the  summer, 
Breeding  and  dying, 

But  also  that  we  might,  half  knowing,  worship 
The  deathless  beauty  of  her  guiding  vision, 
And  learn  to  love,  in  all  things  mortal,  only 
What  is  eternal. 


•  **•• 

III 

GATHERING  the  echoes  of  forgotten  wisdom, 
And  mastered  by  a  proud,  adventurous  purpose, 
Columbus  sought  the  golden  shores  of  India 
Opposite  Europe. 

He  gave  the  world  another  world,  and  ruin 
Brought  upon  blameless,  river-loving  nations, 
Cursed  Spain  with  barren  gold,  and  made  the  Andes 
Fiefs  of  Saint  Peter; 

While  in  the  cheerless  North  the  thrifty  Saxon 
Planted  his  corn,  and,  narrowing  his  bosom, 
Made  covenant  with  God,  and  by  keen  virtue 
Trebled  his  riches. 


72 


What  venture  hast  thou  left  us,  bold  Columbus? 
What  honour  left  thy  brothers,  brave  Magellan? 
Daily  the  children  of  the  rich  for  pastime 
Circle  the  planet. 

And  what  good  comes  to  us  of  all  your  dangers? 
A  smaller  earth  and  smaller  hope  of  heaven. 
Ye  have  but  cheapened  gold,  and,  measuring  ocean, 
Counted  the  islands. 

No  Ponce  de  Leon  shall  drink  in  fountains, 
On  any  flowering  Easter,  youth  eternal; 
No  Cortes  look  upon  another  ocean; 
No  Alexander 

Found  in  the  Orient  dim  a  boundless  kingdom, 
And,    clothing    his    Greek    strength    in    barbarous 

splendour, 

Build  by  the  sea  his  throne,  while  sacred  Egypt 
Honours  his  godhead. 
73 


The  earth,  the  mother  once  of  godlike  Theseus 
And  mighty  Heracles,  at  length  is  weary, 
And  now  brings  forth  a  spawn  of  antlike  creatures, 
Blackening  her  valleys, 

Inglorious  in  their  birth  and  in  their  living, 
Curious  and  querulous,  afraid  of  battle, 
Rummaging  earth  for  coals,  in  camps  of  hovels 
Crouching  from  winter, 

As  if  grim  fate,  amid  our  boastful  prating, 
Made  us  the  image  of  our  brutish  fathers, 
When  from  their  caves  they  issued,  crazed  with  terror, 
Howling  and  hungry. 

For  all  things  come  about  in  sacred  cycles, 
And  life  brings  death,  and  light  eternal  darkness, 
And  now  the  world  grows  old  apace ;  its  glory 
Passes  for  ever. 


74 


Perchance  the  earth  will  yet  for  many  ages 
Bear  her  dead  child,  her  moon,  around  her  orbit; 
Strange  craft  may  tempt  the  ocean  streams,  new  forests 
Cover  the  mountains. 

If  in  those  latter  days  men  still  remember 
Our  wisdom  and  our  travail  and  our  sorrow, 
They  never  can  be  happy,  with  that  burden 
Heavy  upon  them, 

Knowing  the  hideous  past,  the  blood,  the  famine, 
The  ancestral  hate,  the  eager  faith's  disaster, 
All  ending  in  their  little  lives,  and  vulgar 
Circle  of  troubles. 

But  if  they  have  forgot  us,  and  the  shifting 
Of  sands  has  buried  deep  our  thousand  cities, 
Fell  superstition  then  will  seize  upon  them; 
Protean  error, 


Will  fill  their  panting  heart  with  sickly  phantoms 
Of  sudden  blinding  good  and  monstrous  evil ; 
There  will  be  miracles  again,  and  torment, 
Dungeon,  and  fagot,  — 

Until  the  patient  earth,  made  dry  and  barren, 
Sheds  all  her  herbage  in  a  final  winter, 
And  the  gods  turn  their  eyes  to  some  far  distant 
Bright  constellation. 


76 


IV 

^" 
SLOWLY  the  black  earth  gains  upon  the  yellow, 

And  the  caked  hill-side  is  ribbed  soft  with  furrows. 
Turn  now  again,  with  voice  and  staff,  my  ploughman, 
Guiding  thy  oxen. 

Lift   the   great    ploughshare,   clear    the   stones   and 

brambles, 

Plant  it  the  deeper,  with  thy  foot  upon  it, 
Uprooting  all  the  flowering  weeds  that  bring  not 
Food  to  thy  children. 

Patience  is  good  for  man  and  beast,  and  labour 
Hardens  to  sorrow  and  the  frost  of  winter. 
Turn  then  again,  in  the  brave  hope  of  harvest, 
Singing  to  heaven. 


7? 


OF  thee  the  Northman  by  his  beached  galley 
Dreamt,  as  he  watched  the  never-setting  Ursa 
And  longed  for  summer  and  thy  light,  O  sacred 
Mediterranean. 

Unseen  he  loved  thee;  for  the  heart  within  him 
Knew  earth  had  gardens  where  he  might  be  blessed, 
Putting  away  long  dreams  and  aimless,  barbarous 
Hunger  for  battle. 

The  foretaste  of  thy  languors  thawed  his  bosom ; 
A  great  need  drove  him  to  thy  caverned  islands 
From  the  gray,  endless  reaches  of  the  outer 
Desert  of  ocean. 


He  saw  thy  pillars,  saw  thy  sudden  mountains 
Wrinkled  and  stark,  and  in  their  crooked  gorges, 
'Neath  peeping  pine  and  cypress,  guessed  the  torrent 
Smothered  in  flowers. 

Thine  incense  to  the  sun,  thy  gathered  vapours, 
He  saw  suspended  on  the  flanks  of  Taurus, 
Or  veiling  the  snowed  bosom  of  the  virgin 
Sister  of  Atlas. 

He  saw  the  luminous  top  of  wide  Olympus, 
Fit  for  the  happy  gods;  he  saw  the  pilgrim 
River,  with  rains  of  Ethiopia  flooding 
Populous  Egypt. 

And  having  seen,  he  loved  thee.    His  racked  spirit, 
By  thy  breath  tempered  and  the  light  that  clothes  thee, 
Forgot  the  monstrous  gods,  and  made'of  Nature 
Mistress  and  mother. 


79 


The  more  should  I,  O  fatal  sea,  before  thee 
Of  alien  words  make  echoes  to  thy  music ; 
For  I  was  born  where  first  the  rills  of  Tagus 
Turn  to  the  westward, 

And  wandering  long,  alas !  have  need  of  drinking 
Deep  of  the  patience  of  thy  perfect  sadness, 
O  thou  that  constant  through  the  change  of  ages, 
Beautiful  ever, 

Never  wast  wholly  young  and  void  of  sorrows, 
Nor  ever  canst  be  old,  while  yet  the  morning 
Kindles  thy  ripples,  or  the  golden  evening 
Dyes  thee  in  purple. 

Thee,  willing  to  be  tamed  but  still  untamable, 
The  Roman  called  his  own  until  he  perished, 
As  now  the  busy  English  hover  o'er  thee, 
Stalwart  and  noble; 


80 


But  all  is  naught  to  thee,  while  no  harsh  winter 
Congeals  thy  fountains,  and  the  blown  Sahara 
Chokes  not  with  dreadful  sand  thy  deep  and  placid 
Rock-guarded  havens. 

Thou  carest  not  what  men  may  tread  thy  margin; 
Nor  I,  while  from  some  heather-scented  headland 
I  may  behold  thy  beauty,  the  eternal 
Solace  of  mortals. 


81 


VARIOUS   POEMS 


EASTER  HYMN 

I  LOVE  the  pious  candle-light, 

The  boys'  fresh  voices,  void  of  thought, 
The  woman^s  eager,  inward  sight 

Of  what  in  vain  her  heart  had  sought. 

I  love  the  violets  at  the  feet 

Of  Jesus,  red  with  some  blood-stain ; 

I  love  the  cross,  and  it  is  sweet 
To  make  a  sacrifice  of  pain. 

Some  offer  bullocks  to  the  skies; 

Some,  incense,  with  their  drowsy  praise; 
He  brings  the  gods  what  most  they  prize 

Who  sorrow  on  the  altar  lays. 


I  love  the  Virgin's  flowering  shrine, 
Her  golden  crown,  her  jewelled  stole, 

The  seven  dolorous  swords  that  shine 
Around  her  heart,  an  aureole. 

Thou  Mother  of  a  suffering  race, 

Whose  pangs  console  us  for  our  birth, 

Reign  thou  for  ever,  by  the  grace 
Of  sorrow,  Queen  of  all  the  earth ! 

Perchance  when  Carnival  is  done, 
And  sun  and  moon  go  out  for  me, 

Christ  will  be  God,  and  I  the  one 
That  in  my  youth  I  used  to  be. 

Things  all  are  shadows,  shadows  all, 

And  ghosts  within  an  idiot's  brain. 
A  little  while,  they  fade  and  fall; 
A  little  while,  they  come  again. 


86 


Sing  softly,  choristers;  ye  sing 

Not  faith  alone,  but  doubt  and  dread. 
Ring  wildly,  Easter  bells;  ye  ring 

For  Christ  arisen,  and  hope  dead. 


GOOD   FRIDAY  HYMN 
I 

V\  HEN  the  Lord  Christ  paid  life  with  death, 

Beside  the  cross  his  Mother  stood; 

She  saw  her  Child  yield  up  his  breath, 

She  knew  the  passing  of  her  God. 

And  He  said :  Lady,  though  I  go, 
I  leave  thee  not  without  a  son; 

All  men  for  whom  my  blood  doth  flow 
Shall  call  thee  mother,  — all  for  one. 

This  bitter  life  is  past  for  me, 
I  can  thy  love  no  farther  prove; 

But  many  eyes  shall  turn  to  thee : 
Behold  thy  son  in  them  I  love ! 


And  Mary  said :  So  be  it  done ; 

Be  they  my  children  in  thy  stead ; 
I  will  love  all,  who  loved  but  one, 

And  in  the  living  see  the  dead. 


II 

MY  soul's  Lord,  too,  paid  life  with  death, 

And  empty  was  her  wide  abode ; 
She  saw  her  child  yield  up  his  breath, 
She  knew  the  passing  of  her  God. 

And  she  said :  Lord,  since  thou  art  gone, 
Thou  canst  my  love  no  farther  prove  ; 

But  while  I  live  each  flower  and  stone 
Shall  bear  thy  name  and  prove  my  love. 


89 


CAPE   COD 

I  HE  low  sandy  beach  and  the  thin  scrub  pine, 
The  wide  reach  of  bay  and  the  long  sky  line,  — 
O,  I  am  sick  for  home ! 

The  salt,  salt  smell  of  the  thick  sea  air, 
And  the  smooth  round  stones  that  the  ebbtides  wear,  - 
When  will  the  good  ship  come? 

The  wretched  stumps  all  charred  and  burned, 
And  the  deep  soft  rut  where  the  cartwheel  turned,  • 
Why  is  the  world  so  old? 

The  lapping  wave,  and  the  broad  gray  sky 
Where  the  cawing  crows  and  the  slow  gulls  fly, 
Where  are  the  dead  untold? 


90 


The  thin,  slant  willows  by  the  flooded  bog, 
The  huge  stranded  hulk  and  the  floating  log, 
Sorrow  with  life  began ! 

And  among  the  dark  pines,  and  along  the  flat  shore, 
O  the  wind,  and  the  wind,  for  evermore  1 
What  will  become  of  man? 


LENTEN   GREETING 

TO  A  LADY 

THEY  must  find  it  sweet  to  pray 
Who  like  you  have  understood 
All  the  charm  of  being  good, 
All  the  worth  of  being  gay. 
By  the  thought  that  we  are  clay, 
Is   proud   grief  itself  subdued, 
May  the  secret  of  the  Rood 
In  your  sorrow  be  your  stay ! 
Spring  your  pleasures  will  renew, 
For  the  heart  is  merry  after 
That  to  Heaven  hath  been  true ; 
And,  more  low  for  Lenten  calm, 
Then  the  music  of  your  laughter 
Will  have  joy  as  of  a  psalm. 


DECIMA 

SILENT  daisies  out  of  reach, 
Maidens  of  the  starry  grass, 
Gazing  on  me  as  I  pass 
With  a  look  too  wise  for  speech, 
Teach  me  resignation,  —  teach 
Patience  to  the  barren  clod, 
As,  above  your  happier  sod, 
Bending  to  the  wind's  caress, 
You  —  unplucked,  alas!  —  no  less 
Sweetly  manifest  the  god. 


93 


A  TOAST 

OEE  this  bowl  of  purple  wine, 

Life-blood  of  the  lusty  vine  ! 

All  the  warmth  of  summer  suns 

In  the  vintage  liquid  runs, 

All  the  glow  of  winter  nights 

Plays  about  its  jewel  lights, 

Thoughts  of  time  when  love  waN   young 

Lurk  its  ruby  drops  among, 

And  its  deepest  depths  are  dyed 

With  delight  of  friendship  tried. 

Worthy  offering,  I  ween, 

For  a  god  or  for  a  queen, 

Is  the  draught  I  pour  to  thee,  — 

Comfort  of  all  misery, 


Single  friend  of  the  forlorn, 
Haven  of  all  beings  born, 
Hope  when  trouble  wakes  at  night, 
And  when  naught  delights,  delight. 
Holy  Death,  I  drink  to  thee; 
Do  not  part  my  friends  and  me. 
Take  this  gift,  which  for  a  night 
Puts  dull  leaden  care  to  flight, 
Thou  who  takest  grief  away 
For  a  night  and  for  a  day. 


95 


CHORUS 

IMMORTAL  love, 
Whose  essence  is  this  pregnant  warmth  of  air, 

O  hear  my  prayer, 

And  tune  my  fervent  hymn  as  high  above 
All  songs  in  rapture  as  thou,  sovereign  Love, 
Art  high  above  the  other  gods  in  power. 
For  whatsoever  things  on  earth  are  fair 
Are  thine :  thou  giv'st  the  flower 

Its  colours  and  its  sweet, 
And  in  the  foot-prints  of  thy  silent  feet 
The  daisies  star  the  prairie,  and  the  shower 
Is  thine,  that  steeps  the  verdure  of  the  mead ; 

By  thee  the  steed 
Is  beautiful,  and  every  noble  breed 
By  thee  remains  to  ages  that  succeed; 
For  thee  the  antelope  is  fleet; 


96 


For  thee  the  horned  bull  is  strong  to  breast 
The  swollen  torrent,  bellowing  to  his  herd ; 

The  painted  bird 

For  thee  hath  music  and  to  thee  addressed, 
And  the  brief  sadness  of  his  dying  note 
Is  for  thy  bitter  absence  and  thy  pain; 
Thine  is  the  rapture  of  his  swelling  throat, 

And  thine  my  strain. 

O  fill  me  once  again 

With  thy  lost  sweetness  now !     As  a  slow  wave 
Laps  the  dank  hollows  of  a  seaworn  cave 
In  deepest  calm,  and  with  prophetic  sigh 
Repeats  the  ceaseless  rhythm  of  the  storm, 

So  let  thy  pulses  warm 

Mine  immost  soul  with  high 
Hope  of  the  things  to  be,  or  wake  a  vanished  form. 


97 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BOJ 

LOAN  DEPT 


Renewed  books  are 

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21Nov'64VI 


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iiftVl9  ^'RA^liil 

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-  HUV  *  P  M  *V'  •" 

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T,r>  9,1  A-40m-ll,'63 


General  Library    . 
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